Free Due Diligence by Michael A. Kahn Page A

balance on her Visa, MasterCard, Famous-Barr, Dillard’s, and Discover credit card accounts, I knew the monthly rental payment on her apartment, and I knew the names and telephone numbers of the neighbors on either side of her.
    But what I couldn’t access on the computer was what she knew about Bruce Rosenthal. I just hoped Karen Harmon knew more about what her ex-boss was working on or worried about than Bruce’s mother and sister did. Yesterday morning, after leaving the offices of Smilow & Sullivan, I had called Bruce Rosenthal’s mother in Columbus to ask if I could meet with her and her daughter later that day. She reluctantly agreed to meet. I caught the noon Southwest Airlines flight to Columbus, rented a car at the airport, and drove out to her small frame house in the suburb of Bexley. Originally, I had considered just talking to them over the phone, but ultimately decided to make the trip. You can often get more out of a witness in person than over the phone.
    Not this time though. It was a wasted trip. Thelma Rosenthal did not have a close relationship with her son, and neither did her married daughter, Robin Dahlberg. In fact, Bruce and Robin had not even talked since last Thanksgiving, when Bruce came in for the holiday weekend. That was more than five months ago. Although Bruce dutifully called his mother every Sunday, he talked very little about himself or his work. She had spoken with him briefly on his last Sunday, but the only personal part of the conversation she could remember was asking him whether he was dating any nice girls—a question that (as usual, according to her) made him sullen and even less communicative. Thelma Rosenthal had no recollection whatsoever of any conversation with her son during his last few months about any aspect of his work or anything that might have been disturbing him. I caught the last flight to St. Louis that night, crossed Thelma and Robin off my list, and circled Karen Harmon’s name.
    At 6:42 p.m., the green Suzuki convertible pulled into the lot and parked one row over from me. I watched as a striking redhead with long wavy hair got out of the car. She was carrying a gym bag, a purse, and clothes on a hanger. She was wearing white Reeboks and a Spandex exercise outfit consisting of a bright turquoise leotard cut high on the hips with a thong back over skintight navy bicycle shorts. Karen Harmon was pretty but not petite. She had large shoulders, large hips, large breasts. I judged her at my height, but twenty pounds heavier.
    I got out of my car and walked quickly after her. When we were about ten feet apart, I called, “Karen?”
    She turned with a tentative smile. “Yes?”
    â€œI’m Rachel Gold. I was Bruce Rosenthal’s attorney. I wonder if I could talk to you for a few minutes about Bruce.”
    She looked me over as she pondered the request. Fortunately, I had dressed for a court hearing that day and was wearing a conservative glen plaid suit, gold link necklace, and gold rope-knot earrings.
    â€œOkay,” she said with a congenial shrug. “I hope you don’t mind if I eat while we talk. I just came from my aerobics class, and I’m starving.”
    Karen’s little one-bedroom apartment was just as sunny and friendly as its occupant. There was a brightly colored crocheted afghan on the couch. On her bed was a homemade quilt and three stuffed animals. On the wall over the television was a framed “Ski Utah!” poster. Over the couch was a framed poster of what appeared to be the Mormon Tabernacle in Salt Lake City. Scattered throughout the living room and kitchen and bedroom were about a dozen framed photographs of a pleasant-looking young man with thinning blond hair—on horseback, on a ski slope, sharing a milkshake with Karen, holding hands at the Arch.
    The microwave oven dinged. I went into the kitchen, removed her Weight Watchers chicken mirabella from the microwave and placed it on